Between the Waters
by kickasslibrarian
Summary: Set directly after Sherlock's 'fall' from the roof at Barts. Molly's work isn't finished; Sherlock still needs her help. Six chapters written so far so there'll be regular updates. Angst, suspense. Other characters: John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. Rated M for swearing and potential naughtiness to come.
1. Sherlock, Deceased

Set directly after Sherlock's 'fall'. There's much more to come!

Thanks to anita999 for Beta reading, and my sister who, despite being a hardcore JohnLock shipper still enjoys reading my Sherlolly stuff. It's worth writing it just for your reactions

 **Chapter 1 - Sherlock, Deceased**

Molly was worrying her fingers, her hands twisting and tugging at one another while she stood staring at the door. A number of half-formed tears had collected in her eyes.

 _Poor John. Oh god, poor John._

She had stayed to watch from the window just long enough to see Sherlock take his place on the concrete; to see the blood poured correctly; to see John break into pieces when he felt no pulse in his companion's veins.

She couldn't watch after that.

 _He must have known._

"I want you to stay inside. No deviation."

"Sherlock..."

"Stay inside!"

They were the last words he had said to her before heading up to the roof and she had been breathing around a blockage in her throat ever since, even though she had seen him bounce to safety; even though he had looked up to give her the briefest nod.

The nod had been her cue. She was to head down to the morgue, ready to receive him, but in that moment she was cement - she couldn't take her eyes off the scene that was being set up. It was played out with such precision, such incredible timing and acting, and just thinking about Sherlock's face covered in that blood, John's face growing paler and his eyes more distant with every second...

She closed her eyes against the memory.

A tear fell down her cheek.

The squeak of wheels and rush of feet approaching made her brush it away. She sniffed, hard, and rolled her shoulders, cracked her neck right and left.

She turned to face the doors, stepping back further and further as the sounds grew closer until they finally burst in, the stretcher leading the way so that it was his hair, matted with blood, that she saw first.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice high-pitched.

The porters who were wheeling the stretcher forward were ones she recognised from the hospital. That didn't mean they weren't in on the plan, but even if they were...

"No one can know, Molly. You have to act like it's real."

She hadn't been sure she could do it. But it wasn't so hard. Not when he looked like that. Not when she thought about John.

 _Oh John...I'm so, so sorry._

"Is that..." she stammered. "It's not..."

"He jumped. From the roof."

"He...sorry, he did...what?" she took a deep breath because her nerves were catching up with her and her voice was starting to shake. "He can't have."

"He did. Doctors said to bring him straight down."

They were both looking at her, waiting for direction. She pointed to an empty bed, the furthest from the door, and followed them as they wheeled him over.

"Are you alright, Miss?" the younger of the two said. Both his eyebrows raised as he took her in. "Did you know him?"

"Yes. Yes I, uh...not well. Just..."

"I thought I'd seen him around," the man grunted as they adjusted the stretcher height and rolled Sherlock's perfectly still, heavy form unceremoniously onto the metal top. "He's that Detective, in he? Something Holmes?"

"Yeah, been in the papers a lot," the older man went on as they threw the straps across the stretcher and adjusted the height back down. "That case about the crown jewels and that. Jumped up twat. Seen him waltzing round here like he's lord of the friggin' manor. Pompous git, if you ask me."

Her fists were shaking at her sides.

"Well I think I can take it from here."

"You sure, Doc? You look a bit shaken up." The younger again. He looked ready to close the distance between them. She thought, perhaps, he looked _interested_.

She breathed deeply, enough to make her voice loud and strong. "I'm fine. Thank you."

The older porter grabbed him by the arm, spinning him towards the door. He looked back as he left but she gave him less than a second before turning her attention to the broken looking man on the slab.

His eyes were closed now. Someone must have had the sense to do that for him; he had done too good a job of faking the death on the pavement, leaving his eyes wide and vacant. Even the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't have been able to sustain that.

She was waiting for him to move, to speak, but he was all stillness.

Her hand skittered an inch from his arm.

"Sherlock," she whispered.

No answer.

"Sshh...Sherlock...?"

A small change in his expression was the only indication he was alive, his breathing entirely undetectable to the naked ear. The expression was...unimpressed.

"Sherlock. There's no one here. You can..."

"The door...is open."

He said it so quietly, with so slight a movement of his lips that she could well have imagined it.

"It's...I know. If I lock it they'll wonder...I'm not allowed..."

"Mol-ly."

There was a hint of the desperate in the way he forced out her name through his sealed lips.

She walked back to the doors and turned the lock, her eyes penetrating as far down the corridor as the tint in the small windows would allow. There was no one around.

"Coast is clear," she said turning back round. He was already up, his legs dangling off the end of the slab, his coat discarded on the floor, hands at his shirt, unbuttoning...

"Do you want me to leave?"

His response was a look that said 'Don't be an idiot,' so she hovered by the iceboxes, watching but not watching until he was down to his trousers which was when she remembered she needed to text her aunt to let her know she wouldn't be able to meet for their coffee this weekend.

She kept her head down after sending the text and waited until she heard the hiss from his lips as he settled his flesh on the metal.

The soft ruffle of fabric told her it was safe to look.

He lay, still once more, under the standard hospital blue blanket but his skin was goose pimpled and his nipples peaked.

She walked over, replacing her phone in her lab coat pocket.

"This isn't going to work," she said and he opened his eyes to glare at her. "I mean you can't lie like that for the next few hours. You'll freeze to the table."

"I'll be fine."

"You'll lose your skin."

She looked around, expecting a solution to slap her in the face.

"You need to unlock the door. It's been too long already."

"It's been less than 5 minutes," she replied as she walked around the room, trying to find something, anything that would help. Why hadn't she thought about this already?

There was a drawer of spare linens. If she folded them over...

She grabbed three of the long, blue blankets and sped back to the slab.

"Up you get."

He scowled at her. "You're wasting time."

"So are you. Up."

He did as she said and she tried not to let the flashes of his naked flesh perturb her.

She lay the blankets out, folding them over once, twice.

"Aren't you done yet?"

She folded the last one and stood back to let him hoist himself back up, his own blanket scrunched in his hand.

"It won't keep the cold out for long but..."

He was silent as he lowered himself down. She couldn't not look this time. He was entirely naked and utterly beautiful and...

"You're staring."

"I...I'll go and open the door."

He grabbed her wrist.

"Thank you, Molly."

She nodded and he let go, throwing the blanket over his form with a flourish, hiding his body and schooling his expression effortlessly to become Sherlock Holmes, deceased, once more.


	2. Freezing

**Chapter 2, Freezing**

He wasn't afraid of confined spaces, he'd said.

Well, there were confined spaces, and then there was the icebox; it's small, chill compartments the stuff of even _her_ nightmares.

"D-don't open it f-for an..."

"Another hour, I know."

"If you kn-know why d-did you open..."

"Because your shivering was rocking the whole bloody fridge!" She ran the back of her gloved hand across her forehead. "Sorry. I don't mean to shout but..."

She looked down at his shivering form, his lips already tinged with blue.

"Back...in..." he shuddered out. "P-put...mmme b-back-k-k in."

"Can't we do..."

"Mmmmoll-ly..."

She sighed at the defiance in his red rimmed eyes and moved to the head of the rack. "I think I preferred the drugs."

"Th-that makes t-two of-f usss," he hissed as she pushed his body inside.

She heard him holding onto the gasps that flared in his chest at the drop in temperature.

 _I can't believe I'm doing this._

"If it gets too much," she whispered, bending down to his level, hoping her words were warming his scalp, "just bang on the side. I'll be here." She moved to lay a hand on his shoulder but didn't make contact; she couldn't risk getting the glove stuck. "I'll get you out."

He didn't reply, too busy taking carefully measured breaths.

With more trepidation than the last three times, she drew the blanket back over his face and closed the door on the compartment.

For minutes she stood against it, listening for his breathing, feeling for the vibrations his shivering would cause, hoping to hear the bang of his fists on the metal that meant he wanted to stop now, before the hypothermia really set in; before there was a possibility of it being too long, too late.

She wouldn't let that happen though. He wouldn't lose even a fingertip. He wouldn't get close to cardiac arrest. She knew how often she needed to take him out and when, knew how to increase his body temperature and by how much.

But before that he had to be seen and that would be the hard part. Because she was in charge here today but she wasn't accustomed to throwing people out; not the people she cared about.

We only need one. One person. Then Mycroft can bring his team in to…"

"Will he come too, do you think?"

He paused, the bouncy ball he'd been hitting the floor with almost ricocheting off course. He caught it with that ridiculous accuracy she envied.

"Probably."

"He'll want to make sure you're ok."

"He'll want to practise."

"Practise?"

His phone had beeped then and his eyes flared, his mouth turned up in a half smile.

He stood, his limbs more fluid than they should be after sitting on the floor for half an hour.

"What did you mean, 'practise'?" she asked but he was walking away, his thumbs furiously working the keypad in his hand. "Practise what?"

He turned before opening the door, lifted his eyes to show her he'd heard. "His grief." And then he was gone, the door swinging behind him.

She'd thought that might have been it; that all she'd get before it kicked off was a text to say things were ready, but he swanned back in less than half an hour later, hands in pockets, eyes down, mind somewhere else.

"Oh hi!" The relief of seeing him made her smile so wide – too wide; she saw the engine of his mind crash to a halt at the sight of it.

"I...I thought you'd gone," she'd stammered. "Thought the text was Jim...I mean, I thought..."

"Not him."

"Oh. Good. Then where did...?"

"Do you want me to inform you every time I use the bathroom, or just while I'm here?"

She turned, blushing, back to the calculations she was quadruple checking. "No. Of course not. I was just worried that-"

"I'll tell you. When it's time."

"Good," she'd nodded, finding more comfort in the numbers than his soft, steady voice. "Good."

2 minutes and 45 seconds. She had to pull him out in 2 minutes and 44 seconds.

Her fingers curled at the metal door. He was still in there, unmoving, his body heat dangerously low, his breathing slowing to a stop. They had faked one suicide only to attempt another. Just so he could be seen by someone else. Just so it could be authenticated.

She rummaged in her pocket for her phone. No notifications.

"Where _is_ he?"

It was torture, what she was doing to him. She'd looked it up, her agitation too high to work on anything else. There were people who used it as a form or torture.

1 minute 30 seconds.

That he'd agreed to it; that it was interesting to experiment with a willing subject made it marginally easier to stomach.

 _What would John think, if he knew?_

She blinked the thought away.

1 minute.

She looked at her phone again, opened a new message, started typing:

 **Thought you were on your way. When are**

Before she could finish the doors burst open and Greg stood, panting, between them.

"This has gotta be a joke. Tell me it's a bloody joke!"


	3. Deterring the Detective

Chapter 3, Deterring the Detective

Greg was shaking his head, his hands gripping the cold metal rack.

"I keep thinking he'll wake up and laugh at us."

She stood opposite the DI, one eye on him, the other on Sherlock's unmoving body.

"He can't really expect us to think..." He drew his hand to his head, squeezed his eyes; "This is..." dragged the hand down his face so the skin paled as he stretched it, like he wanted to be rid of it.

"Why don't you sit..."

"He lied to us."

Her hands twisted on the metal rungs in front of her as she braved out Greg's piercing stare.

"He lied to all of us. All this time."

"I..."

He looked back at Sherlock but the relief of Greg's broken gaze didn't last because she was sure, almost certain, that she'd seen Sherlock's chest rise.

 _He's been out too long. I need to stop warming him. He'll get frostbite if..._

"He didn't though," Greg was saying. "There's no way...so many cases..."

She was barely listening now, her eyes glued to Sherlock, waiting for another movement that would give the game away.

"Greg, I have to..."

He stalked to the other side of the room, threw up his arms as he spoke, his voice echoing off the tiles.

"I know he wasn't lying. There's no way he could have faked it all. I've seen him work, Molly. I know it wasn't a lie."

She quickly covered him up – his cold, pale body, his brilliant dark hair - tucking the blanket in around him then, with Greg's back turned, she added another and tucked that in too. Then she pushed the rack back in and closed the door, but not fully.

"You don't believe it, do you? It's bullshit." He was pacing now, picking up items as he passed, looking them over blindly and replacing them. "It's bullshit. Isn't it?"

She walked closer to him, hoping she could edge him towards the door. He caught her arms in his hands, squeezed her.

"You must know something I don't."

"Wh-what? What do you mean? I don't..."

"You've known him for as long as I have. You've spent more time with him."

"I don't think that's true, Greg. He just uses..."

"I know. He does use you. He did..."

"Well I meant the morgue and my equipment-"

"Come on, Molls. We all know how you feel about him. You must have noticed something different. Something odd. Well, more odd."

She moved back, breaking his grip on her. He was Scotland Yard. Of course he'd realise there was something wrong.

"This isn't his style, Molly. He wouldn't waste his life like this."

She looked over to the drawer where his body lay, too cold for too long now.

"There has to be something else. Something I'm missing. I just can't-"

"He was sad." She blurted it, her eyes flitting to the clock. Mycroft's team would be here soon and she needed to get him out, get him warm...

"What do you mean, sad?"

"I mean sad, Greg. He was sad but, look, I hate to ask but I've got work to do and...can we talk about this later? Maybe tomorrow or-"

"You're staying? Don't you think you should take the rest of the day off? Let someone else take care of things? I can give you a lift-"

"No, Greg. It's kind of you but..." her eyes flicked to the drawer, to Sherlock, and Greg's followed.

"Ok." He nodded, pity in his eyes as they found hers again. "If you need to escape though. Just gimme a bell."

"I will."

He pulled her in for a hug and she let him, wrapping her arms round his back, enjoying the comfort she'd been craving since Sherlock had arrived the night before, since she'd seen that look on his face that had meant the world was about to collapse onto their shoulders.

She gave his back a few taps and withdrew but he put his hands on her shoulders, stopping her retreat.

"He was a genius in many things, Molly but when it came down to you he was absolutely bloody clueless," and he kissed her on the cheek.

She tried for a smile but it faltered and his did too. She watched him walk out, shoulders hunched, hands deep in his pockets, his head still shaking from side to side.

She watched until the colour of his coat had become background and his steps couldn't be heard and then rushed back to the drawer, yanking it open, pulling it out, laying her hands on the blankets that separated her skin from his.

"Sherlock. Sherlock?"

His chest was still.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4, Heating Up

It wasn't the first time she'd seen him hesitate, but it would likely be the most memorable.

"It certainly is a fair idea, Molly but wouldn't the tetrotodoxin..."

"You said yourself; it's risky. Too risky. A few minutes too long and...I won't put you in a place I might not be able to bring you back from."

"Hypothermia is-"

"Horrible, I know."

"It also has a number of risks."

"Risks that are easier to control! I know I can do it. I just need-"

"Ok."

"Really?"

"Yes just...don't look so excited. It's unnerving when you smile that wide."

She checked his pulse. 32 beats per minute.

"Ok. Oh. Kay. This is...good," she told the unconscious Sherlock. "We knew this would happen. It's all part of the plan so you just...you just wait there." She tapped his leg in what she thought was a friendly manner and dashed away to fetch everything that she needed.

Methodically, calmly, she undertook his thawing, following her written notes to the letter, administering the heated blankets with precision more than care, barely blanching as she rolled him. Her hands glove-free, she didn't feel a tingle or blush as she placed a blanket under his bum, she didn't make an assessment of his appendage as she handled it, keeping it out of the way as she worked, applying heat to his groin.

"I doubt Lestrade has ever seen a more emotional Holmes," Mycroft told her over the slab. He had arrived while she was struggling to get Sherlock off the rack and two suited gentlemen had helped her move him; men Mycroft introduced by gesture rather than name.

"Won't that arouse even more suspicion?" she asked him, glancing up to see the smirk drop from his face.

She'd refused further help; no way in hell was anyone – secret service or not – messing this up. Instead, he watched her work, his piggy eyes in his perfectly made up face following her every move.

"So where's John?"

He ignored her, inspecting his brother's hand instead, pretending that something had caught his eye.

"It's just a mole, Mycroft. Where's John? Why haven't I heard from him?"

"He is...busy at present."

"What have you got him doing?"

"Don't worry, Miss Hooper."

"Doctor-"

"He will be well looked after."

"He must be...I saw him and he..." she shook her head, trying to rid her mind of the memory.

"He was difficult, apparently."

She smiled. "Good."

There was silence for a moment as she pulled aside the blanket swathing his head; she teased open his mouth, slid in a thermometer and stood back.

Mycroft sighed, gesturing to his brother, to the extra blankets warming on the heater.

"How long will this take?"

"As long as it needs."

"And does it need to be here?"

He looked at his watch, signalling something to the other suits who were working to wipe clean all shreds of Sherlock from the rest of the room.

"It would be better somewhere else actually; I've already diverted six bodies to another hospital."

"Good." Another signal, a phone call by the woman in the corner who had barely lifted her head from the screen since they'd arrived. "We'll move then, shall we?"

Before Molly could say another word the suits were moving in, hands lifting the blankets beneath her patient, a bag appearing from nowhere to slide him into, more bodies appearing with another stretcher, the last glimpse of his face as they zipped him in and, trolley clanging loudly, raced him out and away from her.

She stood agog, spluttering about his body temperature and how important it was to gradually increase it.

"No point telling us. It's you that will be doing it, Miss Hooper."

"Doctor. It's _Doctor_ Hooper," but it was Mycroft's back she was telling as he sauntered to the door.

"Come along, Miss Hooper."

It was a relief to be home.

The last two hours were a total blur. She was in an ambulance, then a car, a transit van, another car and, each time, she found herself next to Sherlock; in the bag, out of the bag, naked, clothed, without a wig, with a wig. She would have been unbearably confused if she hadn't had him to worry about, if there weren't so many variables to his reheating that could go wrong.

They were driving down a familiar stretch of motorway in a Bentley when she lost it.

"If you don't turn that air conditioning off immediately, so help me god I will batter you with every solid implement available!"

The suit in the passenger seat peered at her over his dark glasses, saw the shoe shaking in her hand, and turned the air con off.

That had been the last trip, if you didn't include the lift ride up to her flat. Her nerves were in tatters as she stood with the massive, silent men propping Sherlock between them in the lift.

He would have been better off in the bed but she didn't say anything as they dropped him, semi-conscious, on her two-seater.

 _Should I_ _offer them tea?_

But they were already buttoning their jackets, checking their phones, nodding to one another. They gave her a brief not too before heading for the door. She followed them, closing it before they'd even crossed the hall to the lift.

She dropped her head to the door, giving herself a moment to close her eyes.

It was the first time she'd been alone in hours.

 _I really need to pee._ She'd been holding it in the whole journey, too afraid to ask them to stop for her, just in case it ruined the plan, got Sherlock noticed. It was burning now, but her legs were so tired, her body totally limp. _I'm going to open my eyes in five seconds and then I'm going to the loo. Five. Four. Three. Two._

A loud gasp from the sofa pulled her focus.

 _Or not._

She walked over, taking in the quick, stilted breaths, the sallow skin, the blue around his lips.

"What are we gonna do with you, eh?"

He was too big for the sofa, that was for sure. One leg dangled off the edge, the other was trailing on the floor, his arms splayed just as awkwardly.

She grabbed her blanket from the armchair and lay it over him, wrestling a little with his arms to get them settled across his chest under the soft knit.

"Ok. I'll be back in just a tick."

It was the first flat she'd had where there was a little hallway connecting the living room and kitchen to the rest of the rooms. She'd been excited when she bought it and now, as she sat on the loo enjoying the most incredible pee she'd had in months, she was even more thankful for the distance it gave.

A giggle shook her shoulders.

 _You've handled his cock and you're worried about him hearing you pee!_

The giggle travelled and grew until she was laughing and gasping into her hands; laughing and laughing and spluttering and sobbing and...

"Shit. Oh...oh shit." She let the tears run onto her palms, making more of them as she struggled to regain control. "Tired," she hiccupped. "You're just...tired."

She forced herself to stop, sniffing hard, blowing her nose, wiping her wet cheeks with her sleeve. When she finally got up her legs were numb and she had pins and needles in her right foot. She walked it off in front of the sink, avoiding the haggard reflection she refused to recognise as her own.

Eventually she washed her hands and went into her bedroom, pulling out the winter duvet she kept vacuum packed under the bed and the sleeping bag from her festival days from the airing cupboard. She dragged both into the living room.

Sherlock had moved plenty, but she was glad to see he was still under the blanket. He'd hugged it to him, tucking his legs up beneath himself, huddling in as close as he could get.

She moved the coffee table out of the way then unzipped the sleeping bag, laying it on the floor in front of the sofa.

"Now for the tough bit."

She knelt next to him, her face close to his.

"Sherlock." She spoke loudly, clearly, the way they trained you on the first aid courses. "Sherlock. Can you hear me? I need you to wake up. Sherlock. I need you to move. Not far. Just on to the floor."

She tried a variation of the same words a few times, getting nothing but the flicker of eyelids and the occasional low moan in response.

"Alrighty then." She knelt back, assessed him. "You have to be so bloody big, don't you?"

She started with his legs, tugging them out from under him, nearly hitting herself in the face twice as she manoeuvred them up over the arm of the chair and down to the floor.

"Great. Brilliant!"

He lifted them back up.

"Ok. Oh-kay. This should be easy really. It's just the recovery position and then a roll. I'll just roll you. It won't hurt and it'll be quick and easy and...ok."

He battled against her as she moved his arms, his knee, and she found herself slumped back on the sleeping bag, out of breath, sweating and sporting a burgeoning bruise or two on her stomach and arms.

"Fine. Fine! Bloody stay there! Freeze, for all I care. Die in the night. It'll serve you right."

She got to her feet, ready to storm off. She needed sleep too. She was knackered. _She_ wanted to lie down on her sofa and huddle under her blanket and... "Oh."

A few minutes later he was sprawled on the sleeping bag and she had the couch. She'd squeezed in behind him and pushed with her whole body, taking up more and more space until, eventually, he'd fallen off the edge.

She turned on her side and looked down at him.

"How did you sleep through that?"

His breathing was still laboured and he had a sheen of sweat over his face, his hair a sodden, sticky bird's nest.

"Sherlock Holmes," she sighed. "The only man to make death look sexy."

She hoisted herself up, reaching for the knit blanket that was now trapped beneath his legs. When it was tucked around him once more, she grabbed the fluffy duvet and cocooned him.

"Right, you can cook for a minute. I need a drink."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - Coffee

" **Molly. Molly why aren't you here? Why isn't** _ **he**_ **here? What have they..." a sharp intake of breath, a stifled sob. "Molly, please. If you know anything... Just get back to me."**

Coffee was a wonderful thing. She usually went for fresh herbal teas, grinding the leaves with the pestle and mortar her aunt had given her, watching as the infusion released into the hot water in the neat little glass teapot she loved so much.

But herbal teas just didn't do it. Not when sleep was something you'd last had more than 48 hours ago.

Espresso, that was the beast. And she'd sunk four of them since settling Sherlock into his little bundle of bedclothes.

It was 7pm and he was finally the right temperature. She'd checked it four times, just to be sure, because she wasn't that kind of doctor – the kind that looked for a stable 37°. She could easily get it wrong.

But there he was, breathing more normally, skin less clammy, lips a regular colour.

And here she was, caffeinated to the hilt, watching over him with fevered apprehension, considering shaking him awake just to ask him how he felt because she no longer trusted her own judgement and _god it would be good to have someone to talk to_.

Her fingers were tapping quickly at her thighs, her heels bouncing on the laminate, her eyes darting to the phone on the mantelpiece.

 _ **"Molly. Molly why aren't you here?"**_

She stood abruptly.

"Do something useful, Hooper. Something fun. " _Something that's not Sherlock related._

She walked around, picking up books and DVDs, a pack of cards, an abandoned crochet project.

 _ **"Molly, please. If you know anything..."**_

She should definitely start crocheting again. She'd almost finished the second sock so it was just a case of...

Her phone growled against the fake marble surface. Another missed call.

 _Another message from John._

She rocked on her heels for a moment. She hadn't looked at it in a while. It couldn't just be John, all those calls, all those messages.

She walked to the mantelpiece and reached for the phone; held it at arm's length as she unlocked it; flinched at the number of notifications.

A message from Aunt Sheryl: **U work 2 hard! Make sure u take th** **hrs back. Cu nxt** **week? x**

A message from UNKNOWN: **Keep me informed. M**

She scoffed. _Brotherly love at its best._

A missed call from Mrs Hudson. Another from work. Eight in total from John. Three voicemails.

 _Call him back._

She dialled the number for her voicemail and held the phone close to her ear.

"You have three new messages and one saved message," the tin lady on the phone told her. "First new message, received today at 5:07pm."

 **"Molly, dear, it's Martha. John's been home and he said..." A pause. A sniff. "Well, please will you give me a ring? Just a tinkle, when you're not busy? He said you would know everything because it...it happened at..." A sob, high and flutey** **and snuffled back like a Yorkshire terrier. "Well I'm sure it's n-nothing. Just ring me when you're free, ok love?"**

"Second message, received today at 5:25pm."

 **"Molly, it's Mike. From work. I don't mind emails, you know, but it's quite unlike you to be ill and not quite in keeping with policy. You're really meant to phone me; speak to me directly, you know? Anyway, give me a call. When you're feeling a little better." A pause. A sharp breath through the nose and out again. "If this is due to that Sherlock Holmes. I know you...I mean, I know it must be..." A sigh. "Well. Call me."**

"Third message, received today at 6:39pm."

 **"Molly, please pick up the phone." A car rushing through a rain soaked gutter. "I know you know something. Mike says you're ill but Greg didn't think..." The babble of a crowd, an acoustic guitar, the horn of a cab. "I'm coming round."**

She dropped the phone from her ear, ignoring the sound of the saved message, the one she'd been replaying in her head for hours.

 _ **"Molly. Molly why aren't you here?"**_

Twenty minutes ago.

She closed the call, shoved the phone in the pocket of her shabby old cardigan.

"Shit. Shit!"

Depending on where he was in London he could be half an hour or two minutes away.

What had it sounded like? It was busy. There was music. It could be anywhere – Oxford Street, Brixton, Shaftsbury Avenue, South Kensington, Leicester Square, Covent Garden.

She ran to the window, looking left and right. A few shapes out there in the dark, but none of them John. Not yet.

 _What the hell do I do?_

"Sherlock..."

She went to him, knelt by his side, shook him lightly. "Sherlock, wake up." Shook him harder. "Sherlock! I need you to wake up."

Nothing, not even a murmur.

"Sherlock! Wake UP. Now!"

She pulled an eyelid down but the gaze beneath was empty.

"Please. Please wake up." She pushed at his solid form, like a child having a tantrum. "I don't know what to do. I don't know..."

She pushed and pushed but he still didn't respond and she turned away, slumping against the bulk of him rolled up in her blankets.

"John could be here any minute and you're as useless as a bloody corpse."

Another vibration; another message. She rushed to read it; almost screamed when she did.

"No, I don't need more mobile data! I need..." She closed her eyes, breathed out hard. "I need him to wake up." She was struggling not to cry. "I need Sherlock bloody Holmes because he's the one with all the answers and I'm just a pathologist and what use is that. What use is that?"

She was squeezing the phone so hard that her hand was starting to hurt. She released the pressure and unlocked the screen, scrolled through her contacts. Aunt Sheryl, Greg, John, Meena, Mike, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock... - she wanted to ring all of them, any of them but she couldn't so she kept scrolling and scrolling, up and down through the list, the names blurring in front of her eyes.

"Think, Hooper. What would Sherlock do?" She laughed, short and hard. "A disappearing act." She sniffed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "Well for that I'd need a man with a van and big muscles...so I'll ring Paul. Bit of an odd job for you, Paul," she mimicked herself, her voice high and trilly, "not quite so orthodox as shifting a fridge, I'm afraid."

She huffed and closed the contacts list, stared hopelessly at the background colours, the time.

7:16pm.

He could be in the street by now. He could be walking up the steps right this second

"Jesus. This is..." She turned back to Sherlock, stared at his sleeping face. It wasn't tranquil by any means – his brow creased, his cheeks shallow and pinched at the peaks. She reached a hand out, resting it on his forehead, wincing at the heat she felt there.

"I'm sorry I tried to wake you. You're not well enough yet but..." She cupped his cheek in her hand, caressed it with her thumb, a jolt of fear and excitement coursing through her as she skimmed the corner of his mouth, his crooked lips. "I wish you..."

She froze at another vibration from her phone. She waited for more but none came.

She sat back on her heels, unlocked it with shaking hands.

A text from UNKNOWN:

 **John on his way to you. Attempts to intercept failed. Do NOT let him see Sherlock. M**

"You've got to be kidding me." She stared at the message, open mouthed. "If the secret bloody service can't stop him how the hell do you expect me-"

The intercom buzzed and the shreds of sanity that were holding her together tore with the clatter of her phone to the floor.

She hovered by the handset on the wall; the one that would let her speak to John if she'd just pick it up. It was an old-fashioned system so she couldn't see his face, but she could imagine it. He'd be as haggard as she was, his eyes alive with adrenaline while his lids drooped, the shadows beneath a match for the shadow of stubble he would be scratching at. She could almost feel the tension in his fingers on the buzzer, the nervous energy he couldn't shake making him scrape the wall with his free hand as he waited...and waited...and waited.

Her own hand reached out, clutched the smooth white plastic that would connect her to him, but she didn't lift it.

"I'm ill, John. It's a bug. Contagious," she practised, her voice shaking. "So you can't come up. I'll ring you...I'll...we can talk another..."

The buzzer sounded again and this time it didn't let up.

Her fingers twitched on the handset.

 _Just answer. Answer him you bloody coward._ And for a moment, one reckless moment, she considered letting him in, telling him everything, taking away his pain.

"John can't know. You must promise me – _promise_ me – that you won't tell him."

"But...Sherlock, you can't...he's your best friend, your-"

"He will only be safe if he truly believes I'm dead."

"So you want me to lie to him! For...how long?"

"It's impossible to say."

Her phone vibrated again in her pocket and she took her hand off the handset to retrieve it.

 **John calling...**

She stared at it until it rung out. And then the buzzer stopped too.

She wanted to walk to the window; to watch him leave because surely he would give up now. It had been ten minutes already. But a text buzzed through and it was from him.

 **I know you're home. I can see the light on.**

Shortly followed by.

 **I'm not leaving.**

And then.

 **If I get chilblains on my arse I'm blaming you.**

A laugh broke through the fear clogging her throat.

She grabbed her keys and coat, rammed her feet into her trainers, took one last look at Sherlock and headed for the door.


	6. Chapter 6, Lying for You

Chapter 6, Lying for You "So you want me to lie to him. For...how long?" "It's impossible to say." "You mean initially. For the first couple of weeks, until after the funeral?" "No, Molly." "I can't. I can't do it. I'm not a liar, Sherlock. He'll see right through me. I'm the most transparent person that lived! How can you expect-" "No one is more surprising than Molly Hooper." "Don't be ridiculous; you see through me all the time – everyone does." She gasped as his fingers caught her chin, tilted her face so she was staring straight into his earnest eyes. "I saw what I wanted to see. Never the truth." He stepped closer, his hand moving to her shoulder, grasping it. "I know you can do it, Molly. You can because you have to. It's the only way to save him." "And what about you? Who saves you, Sherlock?" "You. You're a superhero, Molly Hooper." And for the first time in days he looked like him again, the twinkle back in his eyes, the smile on his lips. Then it was gone.

The mirror in the lift was never friendly, but tonight she couldn't blame it for what she saw. Her hair was a mix of static and grease, she had mascara under her eyes and the polka dot pyjama bottoms and purple trainers didn't match her teal coat at all.

She ran her fingers through the tangles of mousy brown, mussing it up, smoothing it down. It looked worse.

 _Good,_ she thought. _It's more realistic if you look like shit._

The counter was almost at zero.

"You can do this, Molly Hooper," she told her reflection. "You're a superhero."

The lift binged, the doors opened, the corridor was deserted. She almost let the doors close again, almost pressed the button for the 5th floor.

"You can do this."

Moments later she was on the front step, sitting down next to the hunched figure that was John Watson. London was already as dark as it would get tonight; a light wind made the few trees that lined the street shake their leaves. She drew her coat closer around her, turned the collar up against the cold, avoided looking at the man beside her.

"Something wrong with your intercom?" he asked. His voice was rough, as if he'd been shouting a lot, or drinking too much.

"I switched it off."

"Trying to hide from me?"

She shook her head. "Not just you."

"Why didn't you answer the phone? I've been calling."

"I know."

"I went to Barts. Did you listen to the messages? I wanted to see..." He bumped his fists against his knees, squeezed his eyes closed.

"I did get them."

"You didn't want to speak to me. Because you're in on it too."

"I..." she sighed, watched the heat of it hit the air in a cloud of mist. "I didn't want to speak to anyone. I've been..." She turned to look at him briefly, caught the shadow of stubble on his chin, just as she'd expected, his hair all out of shape, his collar grubby."

"You've been what? Working with Mycroft and his merry men?"

"No. I've been..." She was fidgeting again, her fingers squeezing and pulling and twisting at each other as she spoke.

"Where did they take him? You can at least tell me that."

"I don't know."

He grabbed her hands, pulled them towards him so she was forced to turn, to look at him properly.

"Don't play games with me, Molly Hooper. You know something. You were with him before..." He shook her hands in his, his grip tight and uncomfortable. "You were with him."

"He was just using the lab."

"There's something odd going on and I...you..." he paused, shook his head, "I know you know something, Molly. I know..."

"I don't want it to be real either."

"That's not what..." He dropped her hands like they had scalded him. "That's not what I'm saying. It's..."

He stood up, ran his hands through his hair, started to pace; the soldier readying for arms.

"Mycroft gave me this spiel about moving the body for family reasons – his parents' wishes or some bollocks and I know...I know he's lying. He's not..."

"John."

"Don't look at me like that."

"John, please..."

"I'm not mad. I know there's something wrong."

"John..."

"I can feel it. It's...wrong, Molly, it's-"

"And you think I've got something to do with it?"

"You were there. Greg told me; he saw you, before Mycroft-"

"I _was_ there. And it was horrible. I..." She hugged her arms around herself, bracing against the rain that was starting to fall. "It was a relief, John, when they took him – I was glad because I just..."

"You're lying."

"...I couldn't bear to look at him anymore. I was..." she tugged at her own hair, twisting it in her hands.

"You've got to be..." he was pacing faster, turning himself in circles. "They did something. Made him...I don't know...but he's not dead. I know he's not because he can't... I know you're lying to me."

"God, I wish I was, John. I wish I could tell you that he's upstairs; that his body's in my bath tub and I'm working on a way to bring him back to life. But I'm not that kind of doctor; I'm not Victor bloody Frankenstein; I'm a pathologist – I'm only qualified to tell you how dead someone is and I'm..." She sucked in a breath, trying to hold on to the words that wanted to run out of her. "I'm not..." she breathed heavily, closed her eyes, blocked him out because his eyes were on her and she couldn't see that look and stay in control. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I've not slept in nearly two days. I've been..." She rubbed more mascara onto the heavy bags under her eyes.

He crouched down in front of her, grabbed her hands again, clasped them so tightly she nearly pulled them back.

"Just tell me where Mycroft took him. If you know...Molly, please..."

His eyes were red, brimming with the tears she knew he hadn't let out yet.

"I don't know," she whispered, shook her head, tried to break his gaze. "He told me the same thing he told you and I-" Her lips trembled, her eyes filled with her own tears. "I'm so sorry, John, I just don't..." and her view of him was blurred because she was really crying, as hard as she had in the bathroom and for a moment she thought he looked angry, that he was going to shout at her because he really could see through her horrible lies, but then he sank down to his knees and tugged her close, his arms wrapping her in, pressing her cheek into his cold, damp jacket and she could feel him shaking, could hear his barely muted sobs against the crown of her head.

They stayed that way, the rain falling on them slow and steady, until the door behind them opened and closed, feet quickly stepping past them with an awkward apology. They drew apart but not far, their hands gripping each others arms, his face close to hers so she could see plainly how raw his pain was.

"It can't be..." He stopped himself, eyes closing over the words. He forced himself to breathe steadily, his eyes opening to focus somewhere to her right; the stone of the step, solid and real, or the deep green of the ferns that lined the stoop.

"Maybe you should go home. Get some sleep. Eat something. You look..."

He shook his head.

"Does Mrs Hudson...she tried calling me too; does she know?"

A stiff nod.

"Don't you think she'd want to see you?"

"I can't go back."

"You have to. She'll be worried."

"She's just the landlady."

"John!" And she was surprised by how stern her voice was. He heaved himself up, sat beside her again.

"I can't go back."

"So where will you stay? I've only got one bed; you can have the sofa but-" she didn't know why she was saying, couldn't stop the words tumbling out.

"Thanks, but I'll be..." He bumped his fists together in a rhythmless pattern.

"We could go for food. There's a Chinese buffet on the corner, or the Italian on the square."

"Don't think they'd let us in like this."

"I can change. Give me ten minutes and I'll be almost presentable."

He shook his head again. "Thanks, but...you're probably right. I should go h...I should go and see Mrs Hudson or-"

"You're not going to chase after Mycroft?"

"He usually finds _me._ Especially when I don't want him to. Maybe I'll act aloof for a day or two. _"_

"Or do something illegal. That should get his attention."

"Yeah," he faked a laugh. "Yeah, I'll break into a gallery. Steal a painting or..."

"Or Buckingham Palace. That'd do it, I reckon."

Their tight chuckles fell dead against the rain-soaked pavement.

He stood. Walked to the pavement. Turned back to her.

"Sorry. For..."

"Don't be."

"I'll be...I'll see you..."

"Yeah, look," she got up too, walked to him but he took a step back. "Anytime you need to-" she shrugged, hugged herself because he had closed up, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on his feet. "I'll answer next time. And you know where I am."

"Yeah. Thanks. I'll..." He reached a hand out but it was still in his pocket so she grasped his arm instead.

"He always put you first."

"He-" he winced, turned his face. "Not in the end." And he was walking away, into the rain that was falling faster, crossing the road at a run to avoid a cab that was speeding by.

She watched him until he was a speck in the distance, a dark blot against the bright lights of London's night life.

"Always."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Molly couldn't face the lift. It was all mirrors and she didn't want to look at herself right now, so she took the stairs, trudging up them slowly, trying to focus on the burn in her thighs instead of John's face, his rubbed-red eyes, his drooping cheeks.

 _How could you do that?_

She had lied to him. She had looked into his eyes and...

She turned mid-step, hand on the railing. She should run after him. She had his number. She could call him, make him wait, or come back. Invite him in. Explain everything.

It was only fair. He'd _want_ to know. He _should_ know.

 _"Promise me – promise me - that you won't tell him."_

"I can't...I can't," she told the stairwell as her eyes began to stream again. "I can't tell him."

She turned to walk up again, but stopped on the second landing, unable to go on while her eyes were blurred. She rubbed at them until she could see, only to find her face reflected in the metal panel of the fire door.

She watched herself, elongated and bumpy, brushing the tears away.

"Pull yourself together, Hoops. You're stronger than this. You're a super...a superhero..."

Another sob broke her words, but she forced it back, watching her distorted features scrunching with the effort.

Slowly, shakily, she started walking, sucking in the tears as she went.

Her eyes were dry when she opened the door to her flat; she spent a long time making sure of it, half expecting to find Sherlock awake and bounding around like a giraffe on speed, or else he'd be gone, like he so often was when she wanted him.

But there he was, wrapped in her blankets, sleeping so loudly she could hear it from the doorway.

"Still here, then?" She asked loudly as she headed over. "You know, your being here is supposed to be a secret." She leaned over him, taking in his open mouth and slightly wet nostrils. "Carry on like this, and the whole building will know I've got company."

Gently, she pushed his jaw closed and then slowly, methodically, she worked her fingertips against the pressure points for his sinuses.

When she heard the flow of air moving more freely in and out of his nose, she straightened up and headed out to the kitchen.

It had been neat and clean when they'd arrived. Now it was a mess of cups, coffee granules and crumbs from the toast she'd managed to force down her throat a couple of hours ago.

Guilt pulled at her stomach, making her want to retch it all up. The last thing she'd seen Sherlock consume was a packet of Quavers and that was...when? How many hours had it been now?

She couldn't think to count.

At least she'd made him drink. Before she'd started freezing him and in between each stint in the icebox, she'd forced a glass of water down him.

"You'll be the one emptying the catheter," he'd scorned, too angry and tired to care about drinking, but too weak and shivering to fight her off. "I've dealt with far worse than the contents of your bladder, Sherlock."

She blinked the thought away. She really should deal with that too. But not yet.

"I need a drink first."

A _real_ drink.

She couldn't remember the last time she had craved wine so much. She could already taste it. She could almost feel the relief of the alcohol tingling its way through her veins, calming her down.

So where was it? She was opening and closing cupboard doors, utterly perplexed.

"I know there's one here...I bought three, and only had..."

A bottle loomed in the deep dark of a corner unit and she grasped at it triumphantly, only to fall back on her heels in despair.

"Ouzo?" She grimaced at the label which was faded and tacky. "No thank you."

Discarding it, she opened the fridge, sure that, if there wasn't any red, she'd at least have some white wine for cooking. But there was nothing there either.

She dragged a stool over from the breakfast bar and clambered onto the worktops, searching the highest shelves, pushing aside dusty Tupperware and gone-off variety packs of cereals only to clamber down, defeated and furious, minutes later.

"Right then," she fumed, throwing the corner unit open and grabbing up the Ouzo.

She didn't bother with a glass, so the first sip made her lips tingle. The second made her gag.

And that should have been enough, but her head was pounding again with John's words, with his broken expression, so she kept drinking, chugging at it until the coughing stopped and the burn in her throat and chest began to feel friendly and warm.

Hardly lowering it from her lips, she walked towards the living room, stopping in the doorway to lean against the frame.

He was on his back still, one long arm flung over his face. Peaceful.

"That's it. You keep sleeping. I'll just be here, watching over you. It's not like I've got anything better to do." A smile played over her lips as she said it, the sarcasm falling flat.

He flailed suddenly, his legs lifting the blankets, readjusting them helplessly.

She padded towards him, stopping inches away because he was settling again. Settling with his one foot stretched out.

 _Maybe he's too warm now. He shouldn't be..._

She kneeled by the fan heater she'd stationed at his feet and switched it off, just in case. But she didn't move away. An urge – a ridiculous urge – to reach out, to touch the protruding foot, had come over her.

 _Don't be so bloody stupid! B_ ut there was something mesmerising about the soft, milky skin that stretched out to become long toes, angular and totally imperfect, all odd sizes and bridged with coarse, dark hairs that matched his curls so well. She wanted to run her hand over it, hold it in her palm, smooth the arch with her thumb, up to the ball of his foot which looked hard and dry and in need of a scrub and some moisturiser.

She reached a finger out - she couldn't stop - and ran it down the sword edge of his foot.

He kicked out.

"Shit," she whispered as she fell backwards over the heater, nearly dropping the bottle as she flung out a hand to steady herself.

She waited for a shout of anger, for the flinging back of the covers as he woke wildly, but neither came – just a rub of his face with his arm and the retreat of his foot under the duvet.

Heart still pumping, she crawled until she was sat beside him, bringing the bottle with her.

Legs crossed, jumper tucked over her knees, she watched him settle back to sleep. She watched his face scrunch and relax. She watched his eyelids flicker as his eyes roved underneath.

And she drank.

She wiped her mouth again, squeezed her eyes shut against the taste.

" _You_ wouldn't even drink this," she said, brandishing the bottle at him. She gave a short laugh. "No. No, you'd have taken something instead. Something better at making you forget."

He slept on, as oblivious to her chatter as he was to all the mess and the work that had gone into keeping him safe and well and warm.

She looked around at the debris of her amateur nursing; the thermometer discarded by his head; the glasses of half-drunk orange juice with straws protruding; the damp flannels hanging on the edge of the fruit bowl she'd emptied when his fever had spiked and she'd needed to cool him down.

His hair was still a little wet, and there was a smell to it now – a damp, greasy smell and she didn't mind, really she didn't, but he deserved to wake up to good hair, didn't he? She just needed a bowl of warm water and some shampoo and...

 _That's the most_ ridiculous _thing you've ever thought,_ she told herself as she took another sip of the aniseed liquid.

He moved, turning over so that he was facing her and she stilled, waited, but on he slept.

There was a light crust of sleep dusting his eye lashes.

"Even that looks good on you."

Another swig.

"Ok," she said, putting the bottle down, making her expression serious, determined.

She crawled a little closer to him, laying her hands gently on top of the duvet.

"Sherlock," she whispered. "Sherlock. Are you...Have you needed to...Ha, what am I saying? Ok," she took a deep breath, "I'm going to check on your catheter. Just...stay still. Please. If you can."

Carefully, she lifted the duvet. Underneath, he was clutching tight to her knit blanket with hands and thighs.

She hesitated before gripping it with both hands, tugging.

He whined, holding tight to the material, curling away from her.

"I'll be quick. I promise. You just need to...let me...see," she battled with him over the material and, as she yanked it away from him, for a horrible moment she thought their tug-of-war had broken the catheter's tubing. It hung there, disconnected, like a sawn-off tap, but there was no sign of leakage and she found the tube still connected to the drainage bag, which was under half full, _thank god._

She untied the bag and - _he's just a patient; it's not like you haven't touched a penis before -_ rolled the external catheter off, trying so hard not to touch his skin, to touch his...

 _Stop it, Hooper. Stop thinking about it._

She checked to make sure he was still asleep before running to the kitchen, throwing the whole thing into the bin and going straight to the sink.

"Maybe this will help," she told her hands as she formed a foam with her lavender hand soap. "Maybe you can't fancy someone so much when you've handled their pee."

A second scrub of her hands seemed necessary.

The Ouzo was settling on her and she felt a little giddy as she turned off the water and dried her hands.

When she returned to the living room it was to find him shivering hard, the blanket barely covering him, his hands fisted around nothing but air.

How long had she left him? How long had she taken to wash her bloody hands?

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, sorry sorry," she whispered as she switched the heater back on and smothered him in the blanket and duvet once more.

She wanted desperately to climb under there with him, to press herself against him, to lend him her warmth.

"Well you can't, so just stop it."

Instead, she teased the thermometer into his mouth again and settled above him on the sofa, taking the Ouzo with her, cradling it in her lap.

Every sip settled her nerves, but he was still shaking, the thermometer steadying at 34.6°C.

"Some nurse you turned out to be," she said, sniffing a little. "Can't even keep him warm."

And the tears returned, with a force she could not heed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8, Drunk**

"You're doing it again." "What?" "Looking at me." "I'm just..." "I can't change it. It's the only way to keep them-" "Safe, I know. I do believe you but-" Sherlock sighed, eyes closing, and she knew she was pissing him off. She said it anyway. "But surely John could – he was a soldier, wasn't he? Couldn't he help, if he knew?" "If he knows, he dies. If Mrs Hudson knows, she dies. If Lestrade knows..." "He dies. Ok. I get it." "Do you? Because you continue to act as though you haven't grasped the concept." "I have. I have. Sorry. I just..." He looked at her, face angry, waiting for another stupid question. "I just can't imagine you without him." Sherlock's eyebrows flew up to his fringe. "I mean, I can, obviously. I've seen you without him so many times. I was even jealous- I mean, what I mean is-" she took a breath. "You're happier since he's been around. You show off just as much but-" He scoffed but she carried on. "But It's different now. And you're...different. I mean you're still you, which is good because I wouldn't want..." She was making such a mess of this. She always did. " But a good different. I just...I just..." He laid a hand on her arm and she stopped, looked up at him. He was whiter than before. Was that even possible? Could Sherlock be any paler? But he was. And his eyes were softer. Then he surprised her. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into his side, into the warmth that wouldn't be his for much longer. She hadn't even known she was crying. She only realised when she felt his shirt wet against her cheek. And still he held her, bringing his other arm up to fold across her shoulders. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I am too."

"Please don't be damaged. Don't be damaged because of me."

Another hour had passed and Molly Hooper was drunk. Drunk and tear stained. Drunk and tear stained and lying closer to the man she loved than was strictly necessary. Though, even from this distance, she was having to squint to see the digits on the thermometer sticking out of his mouth.

She twisted it a little, her arms shaking because she had been too long without real food and real sleep and her body was trying to tell her to do something for herself.

"35.7," she read. "Better but it's not..." She sniffed again, lowered her arm to rest over her stomach, folding it across her middle like a cuddle.

She would give anything to feel his arms snake around her like that now, to pull her in close, to breathe into her hair so she could feel the life of him on her skin.

Lying down had been a mistake, but it was one she couldn't reverse now; she was too weak, and too tired. But she was determined to stay awake until he woke. It was imperative that she assess him.

 _I'll be sober by then. I'll check him over properly._

She blinked, watching him.

 _Head to toe...I'll check him..._

Her breathing syncing with his.

 _He'll probably be a bit ill...weak..._

She tried to keep her eyes on him.

 _...for a day or two...and I'll look after him..._

He was so beautiful.

 _I'll look after..._

 _"_ _John! John, I'm sorry!"_ _She ran after him, his head and shoulders in her sights as he tried to dissolve into the crowds._ _"_ _John, wait!"_ _He wouldn't, though. He was getting further and further away._ _"_ _He won't forgive you."_ _Sherlock. He was behind her, but when she turned to him he was gone._ _"_ _I tried. I tried my best..."_ _"_ _And you thought that would be enough?"_ _She looked towards his voice but he wasn't there._ _She moved in a circle, sure she'd see him, find him..._ _"_ _I only did what you wanted."_ _"_ _Not well enough."_ _"_ _I..."_ _"_ _John will never forgive you."_ _"_ _Sherlock, please...just tell him..."_ _"_ _No, Molly," and his voice was growing distant, and she couldn't see him anywhere, and she kept on spinning..._ _"_ _Please."_ _"_ _Molly..."_ _"_ _Please, Sherlock."_ _...and spinning..._ _"_ _Molly..."_

...and spinning.

She opened her eyes but slammed them shut again.

 _I'm gonna be sick._

The world inside her eyelids was spinning.

 _Oh god._

The taste of the Ouzo was harsh in her mouth.

 _I don't want to be sick._

She tried to open her eyes again, letting a tiny sliver of light in at a time.

 _Ok. Ok, less spinny. This is...less spinny. Oof. How long was I out?_

Her eyes snapped open at the thought, still blurry but working hard to find Sherlock's face.

She saw the stubble first, then the red blood vessels that had broken out on his cheeks. The thermometer was gone, fallen to his chest, the display blank.

His eyes were still closed. His breathing was shallow and soft.

She reached out for the thermometer. As she grasped it, she let her hand rest on his chest, over his heart, feeling the steady beat of it against her palm.

It was soothing to her mixed-up soul, to feel him so alive, but so calm.

She closed her eyes again, knowing she was too close to him now, but too tired and dizzy to get up.

 _Please be ok,_ she thought the words in circles as she drifted in and out of a light sleep. _Please be ok. You'll be ok. Be ok. I love...I'll make sure. You'll be ok._

She felt a vibration from her pocket. She ignored it, eyes closed, hand still pressed against Sherlock's chest. She counted the beats, nearly slipping away again to sleep, to that horrible dream. Then she remembered with a jerk, and she reached into her pocket and drew out the mobile, turning away so she could keep the light from it contained.

 **Bumped into Mike in the**

 **canteen. Why didn't you**

 **tell me about Sherlock?**

 **Are you ok? Xx**

Molly winced as she read Meena's message. It was sent out of kindness and concern but she wanted to hurl the damn phone across the room.

 _This is what it's going to be like._

Hesitating over an empty message, she tried to block out the anger that was boiling at the pit of her stomach. Finally, she tapped out:

 **Are you ok? Let me know you're**

 **home safe. And if you need to talk**

She deleted the last sentence, then retyped it, adding:

 **you know where to find me x**

She dropped the phone beside her and fell asleep, staring at the screen, waiting for John to reply.

*0*0*0*0*

She was warm. Warm in a way that was more comfortable than she could begin to describe.

A heat was prominent all down her back, to her waist and down her legs. And then, at her ankles, she felt a warm pressure, as if they were trapped between someone else's.

She wriggled her feet, trying to free them, but something clamped on and held them in place.

A hot exhale of air ruffled the hair on her head.

She froze.

The heat was a body, pressed against her. The something holding her ankles in place was him, his legs trapping her there between his own. And his arms were wrapped around her, hugging her close, one beneath her and one snaking over her waist and pulling her in at the stomach.

Another breath against her hair brought her back to her senses.

 _Sherlock?_

She daren't say it out loud, though the second breath was the same soft tone she'd observed from him earlier, which meant he was still asleep.

 _Asleep and holding me._

She still felt a little sick; the room was still spinning and the taste of Ouzo that lingered on her tongue and at the back of her throat made her gag, but...

 _He's_ spooning _me._

Her arms were free, both hands tucked under her head. She moved one now, positioning it in a mirror of his around hers, so that her elbow folded where his did, her forearm laying against his, her hand - falling short of his – against his wrist, her fingers curling around that soft area, around the bone and veins, and every second she spent touching him like that, though it hadn't been many yet, she forgot about feeling sick.

Her pyjama top had ridden up enough at the back for her to feel the heat of his skin against hers and she pressed back against him, her whole body warming and moulding into his.

 _This is..._

No. It wasn't anything.

 _It's just an accident._

He must have grabbed her while they both slept. She might have even pushed herself closer. Maybe she'd turned around and he'd flung an arm over her. Or she could have forced her way in to the embrace.

She looked at the clock on the DVD player across the room. 11:56.

 _I'll get up in a minute._

She closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them the clock read 00:01.

 _I'm getting up. I am. In a second._

00:22

 _I can't stay here. Need my own bed._

00:47

 _I can't be here when he wakes up._

02:13

 _Maybe I'll stay. Maybe he..._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9, Sherlock - Awake**

 **Something moved, taking the warm away.**

 **Footsteps stumbled down the hall.**

 **Water was running. Somewhere.**

All manner of pain was making itself known to Molly; a scrape at the back of her throat when she tried to swallow; an ache down her right side where it was pressed into the floor; dry, stinging skin around her eyes. And a headache. Oh, god, the headache.

She pried her eyes open and it made everything worse. So she closed them again.

 _More sleep. I need more sleep._

She tugged the duvet over her head and curled up, hugging her knees to her chest.

It was warm, but not as warm as sleep had been, not as warm as the arm that had snaked around her, the body that had been pressed against her back. Not as warm as...

"Sherlock!"

Despite her blurry, aching state she shot up, searching with eyes and hands for the missing detective. The blanket on the floor beside her was cool. He had been gone a while.

"Sherlock?!" Her voice was rough but loud enough. So why wasn't he answering?

Reaching for the sofa for support, she pulled herself up. It wasn't easy, standing, but she searched the area for clues, wincing when her eyes fell on the half-empty bottle of Ouzo.

What had possessed her?

Memories of her tears, of monitoring his temperature, of trying to get him to drink, to wake up; memories of John, of his anger, his desperation; memories of Sherlock's naked body pressed close against her back. They were broken and blurred, but they had happened.

Maybe that was it, now. Her part over. Mycroft might have sent someone in during the night to take Sherlock away. Or perhaps he had woken up, seen her there and decided it wasn't safe to be with a drunk.

But she could hear a sound. Water, maybe. Running water, and the whoosh of the boiler.

Forcing her body with each step, she made her way through the mess of her living room and down the hall towards the bathroom. She could hear the quiet thrum of it now.

 _He's in the shower. Of course he is._

Unbidden, the thought of his naked body, his stomach, the trail of hair that led downwards, all the parts of him that she had focussed so hard not to lust over in the last couple of days came rushing in.

She leaned her head against the door and listened, trying to put a block on the images of suds on his skin, of his hands working the soap into a lather...

"I bet he's used all the L'occitane."

Surely she should be able to hear him moving about? As stealthy as he could be when needed, he was habitually rambunctious. Singing probably wasn't the daily norm, but she couldn't imagine he was the quiet type when it came to daily ablutions.

The quiet continued and the thrum of the water was echoed in her pulse.

What if there was something wrong? What if he'd passed out, hit his head? He could be drowning.

She reached for the handle. Hesitated.

 _If he's fine, he'll shout at me._

"Sherlock. Are you ok?" Her voice sounded sticky, and she swallowed down the taste of stale alcohol and sleep as the handle gave way under her hand.

Steam buffeted out, hitting her in the face.

"Sherlock," she coughed, waving it away with her hand. "Sherlock, I'm coming in."

Her small bathroom was full of steam, the extractor fan doing as little as usual to thin the air. Through it, she could make out the shower curtain pulled across, her knit-blanket on the floor, a fresh towel hung over the sink.

He hadn't shouted. In fact, she couldn't hear anything, but as the steam cleared through the open door into the hall, she could make out a set of feet sticking out of the bottom of the shower curtain, still and blue.

"Sherlock? Are you ok?"

The muffled groan was all the answer she needed. In just two strides she was at the bath, pulling back the curtain. It was a sorry sight. Hunched over, head in his shaking hands, elbows tucked in behind knees that reached his forehead – he was curled up like a child trying to hide from scolding parents.

 _Oh, Sherlock,_ she thought, her own pains entirely forgotten in the face of his.

He looked up at her through splayed fingers and sodden hair. The blue of his eyes was murky, but there was a challenge in them.

 _No good cop, then._

She folded her arms. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

"What does..." His throat sounded as rough as hers, and he tried to clear it with a cough that wracked his whole body. "What does it..." he swallowed, "look like."

"It looks like you tried to warm yourself up with a hot shower when the last thing on earth you should be doing is applying heat of this level to your-"

"I was..." Another cough, just as harsh. "I was washing...my hair."

"Of course you were. Of course you were!" ...y _ou bloody idiot,_ she finished in her head.

"How hot is this water?" she asked, sounding more like her mother than she'd have liked to admit. She put her hand under the stream, yanked it back. "For fucks sake, Sherlock! You're meant to have it lukewarm, not boiling point. You had _hypothermia."_

Paying no heed to the water that splashed onto her, she reached around him for the taps.

"Don't! No! I'm not..." he coughed again, harder this time, and full of phlegm.

"You need to get out."

"No! I'm...I haven't...I'll..."

He couldn't get his words out around the coughs but he was trying to push her back, away from the taps. He wasn't strong enough.

"If you'd waited for me..." She found the hot tap and turned it down instead of off. "I could have helped." She tested the flow until it came out cooler. "We could have washed your hair over the sink or...what are you doing?"

He was inching away from the water, his hands gripping the edge of the bath to drag himself down the tub.

"It's too...cold."

"No, it's not. It just feels that way because you've been under practically boiling water for..."

"Don't...argue with me."

"Don't be an idiot, then." She took the opportunity of him being further away to put the plug in.

"You're the...idiot. I'm..."

"A genius, I know."

"That's not what...I was going to say."

"No?" She sat on the edge of the bath, put a hand out to halt his progress.

"Just highly intelligent," he said, eyeing her hand which was inches from his chest.

"Well, Mr Highly Intelligent, can you stand up?"

He'd stopped coughing, his breath evening out, but his chest was heaving more than it should. It didn't change the lead in his tone.

"I'd rather not."

"Oh! So you wanted a bath, not a shower? Easy mistake to make, even for a genius." His glare was unrelenting. "Lucky I put the plug in, then."

"Molly. You're being annoy-"

"Helpful is the word."

"No. Annoying is the word. Not to mention abhorrent. Have you seen yourself? And your breath is frankly repellent. How much did you drink last night?"

"Fine!" she said, getting up. "Fine, I'll go, and you can wash your own damn hair and clamber out all on your own when your strength comes back. You should be nice and pruney by then. Maybe you'll even pass out from the heat and exhaustion and I'll finally have some peace!

"Molly..."

"I'll just get my -" she took the toothbrush and toothpaste from the cup next to the sink and grabbed a clean hand towel from the little cupboard underneath. "...and I guess I can pee in the kitchen sink!"

There was more anger than she meant, but her headache was hammering again at her head and she really did need the loo and the embarrassment of it all was more stifling than the hot air. Still, she faked a big grin as she headed for the door. "Good luck!"

"Molly, you're..." But his words were lost in a mumble.

She whipped around.

"Sorry, what?"

His head was bowed, his body shivering as he hugged his knees. It was pitiful.

"You're...not annoying."

"High praise." She folded her arms. "Anything else, or am I free to go?"

"I could, perhaps, do with a little..." he burrowed his forehead into his knees "...a little help."

"I thought I was abhorrent."

"You're not. I'm..."

"Ratty. Stubborn. A total git."

"Yes. Fine. All of those things."

"And you need my help?"

He glared at her through the loose, wet curls. "Yes."

"What's the magic word?"

"Don't milk it, Molly. Just come and help me."

She arched an eyebrow, her arms tightly folded across her chest.

"Oh, fine. Please."

She grinned for real, dropping her toothbrush, toothpaste and towel in the sink as she walked back to him.

"As if I'd have left you here like this."

She perched on the edge of the bath, trying to keep her eyes on his face. "We'll wash your hair, but then you need to get out, ok? It's blankets and food and warm drinks you need now."

He grumbled his assent, still shivering even as the warm water filled around him.

Before gathering up the toiletries, she grabbed a jug from the corner of the bath and filled it with warm water, ready to douse him. Without thinking about it, she ran her hand through his hair, from forehead to crown, and he flinched under her touch.

She froze, her hand tangled in his hair.

"Don't you want me to..."

"Ignore my reactions. I'm simply...I'm..."

"Worn out, I know. It's ok." She let her hand rest there for a moment, hoping he'd get used to the feel of her touch. When he didn't move away and didn't speak, she lifted the jug of water, shielded his eyes with her palm. "Ready?"

He nodded. And what followed were sixteen minutes that would be etched on Molly's mind for the rest of her life.

*0*0*0*0*

Running her hands through his curls, kneading his scalp, working the shampoo and conditioner in and then rinsing them out; she did it for herself almost every single day, but to do it for Sherlock...

He didn't flinch again, though he whined once or twice when she caught a knot. But he didn't scold, and he didn't criticise. In fact, he didn't speak at all. Not until she had rinsed the last suds away, the water draining down the plug hole, and she was drying his _ridiculously bouncy_ curls off with a towel.

"Thank you." He said it whilst the towel was in his way, muffling his voice, but she still heard it.

"That's ok," she replied, pausing only a second in case he was going to say anything more. He didn't and she stood to fetch the towel he had thrown over the sink earlier. She held it out to him. "Wrap yourself up, and then I'll help you out."

It would be easier, she knew, to help him out without the complication of a towel, but she wasn't sure how much more of his naked body she could handle without turning beetroot, and she was certain he would want to start clawing back his modesty.

She was wrong. He ignored the proffered towel, held tight to the edge of the bath and hauled himself to standing. His legs shook and, for a moment, panic lit his eyes and she rushed forward, ready to throw the towel and her arms around him. Somehow, he kept his balance. Then he held out his hand and she passed him the towel and her blushes were saved because she had been struggling – really struggling, even in the panic and the worry and the stress of this whole ridiculous situation – not to look him up and down because his body was impossible to ignore.

 _This should be getting easier,_ she thought as she stayed close by, ready to steady him or catch him, as he clambered out of the bath, the towel tied at his waist still not leaving enough to imagination.

 _That's enough ogling, Hooper. He needs to be warm. His temperature will plummet if you don't wrap him up._

"Wait here," she said when his feet were planted firmly on the floor and the sink was within grasping distance in case he felt giddy.

She rushed to her bedroom and searched through her wardrobe, sure she'd have something that would work – an old sweater from an ex-boyfriend, or an oversized jumper of her own that he wouldn't turn his nose up at.

When she returned to the bathroom with the only thing that seemed suitable – a purple hoodie with just a little pink detailing – it was to find him already dressed in her bright pink, fluffy bathrobe, separating his curls in the mirror.

He met her eyes in the reflection.

"I borrowed your dressing gown."

"I can see that," she said, not bothering to hide the smirk. "It, uh, suits you."

"I was cold. It looked the warmest thing..."

"It is. You're right. And the colour really does suit you."

He rolled his eyes.

"I'll be sure to tell my stylist."

"You do that," she said through a giggle that was impossible to hold back. "In fact, I'll take a photo, shall I? To make sure we really c-capture the colour."

His stare was pure disdain and it made her laughter more difficult to control.

"Yes, a posthumous photo. That should help divert Moriarty's web."

"Point taken." She watched for a moment, far too amused to move.

"Who _is_ your stylist, anyway? Do they do Mycroft, too?"

He dropped his hands to the sink, holding the edges as he watched her.

"How come you didn't get a cane? He got an umbrella, surely a cane or a stick-"

"Are you quite finished?"

"Yes," she managed, blinking back the tears that had begun to well. _Happy tears._ "I'm so glad you're awake."

"Really?" he asked drily, returning his attention to his hair. "I've been told I'm much better company asleep. Or unconscious."

She laughed again but he didn't raise a smirk.

"Who told you that?"

"Mycroft. Fellow students." A slight pause. "John."

The name thumped her chest.

"Oh. Well. I'm sure they were only joking."

He took a moment to consider.

"Perhaps John was."

"Yes. Yes, he was definitely..."

"Have you seen him?"

He was feigning nonchalance badly. She could see it in the bob of his Adam's apple, the stiffening of his shoulders and neck.

 _Lie._

"Don't try to keep anything from me, Molly. I may be a mess, but I can still read you."

She nodded. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Lowered her head.

"He came by?"

She didn't look up. Couldn't.

"He...he thought I knew something. Where Mycroft had you-your body taken. He was..."

She didn't want to say it.

"What? He was what?"

"A mess."

"Drunk?"

"No. Just...tired. Upset. Determined. He thinks there's something else going on."

"How can he think that?" And all of a sudden he was in front of her, his hands gripping hard at her wrists. "What did you let slip?"

"Nothing. I didn't tell him anything."

"Are you certain? Molly, it is imperative; absolutely critical, that John know nothing of what-"

"I know that! Don't you think I know that?" She tugged away from him and it was easier than she expected. "He believed me, ok? I made sure."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I did a bloody good job of it!"

"Were you drunk then, too?"

It was snarky and he seemed to regret it, but she was too pumped with anger to let it slide.

She grabbed for the door, held it open. "I need a shower."

"Don't get offended. It was just-"

"I need. A shower. In _peace."_

He conceded, tucking his hands in the pink pockets and walking out without another word.

As she shut the door, he pressed against it with his hand.

"I was rude. Molly. Sorry."

"I'm used to it."

He went to say something else but she pushed the door until it was tight enough to lock.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Molly scrubbed her skin so hard, it hurt. Then she stood under the pounding water, the heat bleeding through her until she was so dizzy she had to make it stop.

For a long time, she stood behind the curtain, hands crossed at her shoulders, breathing into the solid air, remembering...

 _Running her hands through his wet hair..._

 _Washing the soap off his skin..._

 _Trying not to stare at his chest, his arms, his back, his..._

The steam evaporated and she was forced out of her memories by the cold.

She took time drying herself, moisturising her legs, brushing her teeth. She even flossed, eyes on her reflection in the foggy mirror.

"So attractive," she mocked, squinting at her mottled skin and dark eyes, the permanent crease in her forehead. "You look like you spent the night on someone's floor." She smiled. "Oh. That's right. You did."

She peaked out, checking both directions before dashing from bathroom to bedroom and closing the door tight behind her.

Her duvet was still in the living room, her hair was soaking wet, but her bed still looked comfortable and she found herself crawling onto it, wrapping her towel tighter around her for warmth. Pulling a pillow to her as if it were a cuddly toy, she curled up and burrowed into the familiar scent of sleep.

*0*0*0*0*

 _John's coat was too black, too similar to everyone else's in the crowd. Her legs felt heavy, making it even harder to keep up, no matter how hard she pounded the pavement, how far she stretched with each stride._ _"John, please! Wait! I can explain!"_ _A hand on her shoulder. She turned to see who it was, but..._

She woke with a start. Had a door slammed? She could have sworn...

When she lifted her head to look, there was just her empty room and her closed bedroom door with too many cardigans hanging off the hook. The light wasn't on, but it wasn't dark. The clock on her dresser proclaimed 10:11. She tried to work it out, how long she'd been asleep, but she couldn't because she hadn't even checked the time when she came out of the shower. Or when she'd woken to find Sherlock gone.

Sherlock...

"Shit..." Scrambling off the bed, she threw on the t-shirt and joggers she kept under her pillows and dashed to the living room.

Where she found him sat on the sofa, wrapped in her duvet, eyes fixed on her laptop. The coffee table had been cleared to make space for his ridiculously long legs and a mug of tea.

"Something wrong?" He spoke without lifting his eyes from the screen.

"Sorry?"

"Your haste suggests an emergency."

"Oh. No. No emergency, just...I..." She ran a hand through her hair and it got stuck. She tugged it free and tried to tame it with both hands, but it was full of knots.

"Looks a lost cause to me."

"A case?"

"Your hair." He gave her a cursory glance, and she dropped her hands, cursing herself for falling asleep before blow drying.

"We can't all have perfect hair," she said, tugging hers back into the bobble she always kept around her wrist.

"Clearly."

His hair might be perfect, but the rest of him wasn't shaping up too well. His lips were chapped, his fingertips still tinged with blue, and the colour on him...he looked like he'd spent a month in a drug den.

The protector in her wanted to tell him off. _You should be resting. Have you even eaten yet? Why the hell didn't you wake me?_

But she opted for, "You logged in ok, then."

"Yup."

"No point asking how you knew the password?"

"Nope."

"Well. I don't mind." He typed something and hit enter. "I, ha, I hope you're not 'fraping' me," she snorted, hands wringing when he still said nothing. "Oh-kay then..."

He sighed. "Is there something you want, Molly?"

"No. Well. Actually," she took a step forward and saw his eyes roll. "I _should_ do some checks on you." He was typing again. "You know, make sure you're fully functional and, you know, not dead."

Her laugh seemed to echo around them. She tried again. "But I can do it after a coffee. If you'd prefer?"

Silence met her, punctuated by the frantic tapping of keys.

"So...do you want a coffee?"

Nothing.

"Sherlock."

Not even a glance.

She walked close enough to grab the laptop, reached for the lid to yank it back. He grabbed her wrist before she got there.

"What, Molly? What is it?!"

"I just wondered if you fancied a coffee?"

"Oh," he said, loosening his grip, eyes still locked on her wrist. "Yes. Coffee would be great, thanks," and he gave her one of his smiles – one of the fake ones that said he just wanted her to _go away_.

"Great. I'll be right back."

"Great."

*0*0*0*0*

"Mensa accredited genius...can't locate dishwasher," she muttered as she loaded the machine with everything he'd dumped on the worktops, the kettle boiling in the background.

*0*0*0*0*

He didn't look up when she put the cup in front of him and she didn't hover, feeling awkward in her own living room with him there, in her favourite bloody dressing gown, using _her_ laptop, taking over the entire sofa.

"Thank you ever so much for the coffee, Molly. Ohh, anytime Sherlock," she muttered as she reorganised the fridge, bashing containers and jars around with more vigour than the task required. "And thanks for looking after me, too. Making sure I didn't die or anything. Oh, noooo problem at all. It was a piece of cake - a pleasure – I mean, it's not like I had anything better to do or..."

"Did you?"

She whirled around, a gone-off Greek yoghurt in hand.

God, he looked atrociously hot standing in the door frame, mug in hand, dressing gown tied loosely at his waist, the slight flash of his chest more erotic than any of the moments of his bare nakedness she'd witnessed the past days.

"Uh..."

"Did you have something better to do?"

"Well, I-"

"Something more important than thwarting the most dangerous man the United Kingdom, Europe, Asia - I'd go so far as to say most civilized areas of the world, in fact – have ever seen?"

"Of course not, I was...it was a joke."

"Funny." He took a final gulp of what must have been cold coffee, then raised the mug to her. "Thanks."

"I was making one anyway, so it wasn't-"

"Not just for the coffee." He swept closer, putting the mug down next to her, not stepping back to an appropriate distance, so she had to crane her neck just to make eye contact. "You have put in a number of hours and efforts, all of which I really do appreciate."

"Oh. That's ok. I...wanted to."

"Good."

They stared at each other. She was starting to imagine ridiculous things, wonderful things.

He wet his lips, parting them, smirking his sexy little smirk.

"Back to work, then," he said and, with a whirl of pink fleece, he was gone.

*0*0*0*0*

The rest of the day was spent in a sort of silence, with him tapping away at her laptop as she tried to keep herself busy and out of his way.

At intervals, she would try to persuade him to let her examine him, but he ignored, refused and eventually shouted at her.

"Can't you stop meddling? I'm fine!"

He wasn't, but she was beginning to realise he would come around eventually.

*0*0*0*0*

Reading was impossible because her mind was moving at 100 miles an hour, so she swapped to crochet but kept dropping stitches because she couldn't keep her eyes off him, so she tried to get Toby in – he'd gone out after they'd arrived with the semi-conscious Sherlock and had barely been back since – but when he finally appeared with the enticement of tuna, he didn't stay long, clawing his way out of her arms when she tried to hug him, and fleeing through the open living room window out into the growing gloom.

"Some animals can't be caged."

It was the first thing Sherlock had said in two hours.

"I wasn't trying to cage him," she said, closing the window but leaving it ajar, just in case the cat returned.

"He'll be back. When he needs something."

"Sounds familiar."

She watched Sherlock rub his eyes with the heels of his hands; they were glassy with fatigue, and the shadow on his chin and cheeks gave her conviction.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"You need to eat."

"Later."

"And I'd like to use my laptop."

"What for? The only emails you've received have been marketing bumf, and I doubt you really care about Caroline's trip to South End, or what Meena had for lunch."

"You _have_ been on my Facebook page!"

"Just checking in on the 'real' world."

"Have you updated my status?"

She was behind him in a flash, peering over his shoulder at the screen. He wasn't on Facebook – he had a map open in one browser, a Word document parallel to it with a list of names she didn't know, an instant messenger programme she didn't recognise flashing in the task bar, and behind it all was another browser with so many tabs that their titles weren't even displayed.

"What are you doing?"

"Piecing together the network."

"What network?"

"Moriarty's."

"Isn't that Mycroft's job?"

He scoffed. "He has _his_ ways. _I_ have mine."

"And my Facebook page comes into it, how?"

"Need to see how the world is reacting."

"To what? Your death?"

"Moriarty's."

"No one I know will care about that. They'll only want to know..." She stopped. "Sorry, I don't mean-" but he kept talking, like he hadn't even heard her.

"You accepted a friend request from a young man named Jack Tamworth, about six months ago."

"I...how do you know that?"

"He's one of Moriarty's rats."

"No, he's..."

"Fooled again, Molly. By another man pretending to be something he's not."

"We didn't do anything. I never met him or anything."

"He's there to react rather than respond, just enough to make it seem genuine. Not enough to pique your interest to the point where you would ask him out."

"How long have you known?"

"About six months."

She slapped his arm, hard.

"Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Ow! Molly, I'm in recovery!"

"You should have told me!"

"You would have deleted him from your profile, or acted differently online because you knew he was reading what you wrote."

"Not if you'd told me why and what to do."

"Hmmmmm, debatable."

"You just don't trust anyone."

"I trust you."

"Only so far."

"I think asking you to fake my death was-"

"That's the part you knew I could do. And you didn't have a choice."

"I had plenty of choice. Mycroft could have brought in any number of people to do what you have done."

"So-"

He held up a finger.

"I think you're right, Molly."

"What?"

"I should eat."

*0*0*0*0*

He sat at the breakfast bar with her laptop while she grilled Halloumi for a salad, and he ate slices between sips of diluted apple juice, like it was an aperitif, until there was none left.

"Ok. I guess it can be a starter. So...pasta? Umm..."

He didn't protest so she searched the cupboards for a sauce base, getting more and more stressed at the lack of stuff she had available. She needed to go shopping. Desperately.

"Maybe we should order in?" she offered, head in a cupboard.

"The pesto will do."

"There isn't any."

"In the fridge. At the back. Second shelf."

She didn't ask how he knew, but rescued it from the midst of jam jars and chutneys, crinkling her nose at the date on the lid and the white spots of bacteria that were invading their way over the surface.

"It's off."

"The penicillin will help the chest infection."

"What chest infection?" she looked at him sharply. "You told me you were fine."

"It's just a little..."

"Why wouldn't you let me check you?"

He ignored her.

"Sherlock. I'm meant to be looking after you."

"It's nothing serious. Don't over react."

"You could get pneumonia. It's common after hypothermia. I'm supposed to be checking you. God, why do I ever listen to you?" she said, slamming the pesto jar down too hard on the table.

"Don't beat yourself up about it, Molly. I'm difficult to defy."

"Well that's going to change.

He flicked his eyes up, stalled in his work by her defiant stance.

"I doubt that..."

"Stay there. I'll be right back."

A second later, she popped her head around the door to add, "I mean it. Stay."

"I hadn't planned on moving."

*0*0*0*0*

The bits she needed to examine him had been swept under the sofa and she had to lie on the floor to retrieve them. When she marched back into the kitchen, he had already disrobed, the dressing gown drooping down over the bar stool, pinioned by his perfect arse cheeks.

"Close your mouth, Molly. It's unbecoming."

"Cover yourself up a bit then."

"I thought you wanted to examine me?"

"You don't need to be naked!"

He rolled his eyes and folded the arms of the pink robe across his lap, tying them together in a bow that sat right over his...

"Will that do?"

A gulp was necessary. "I suppose."

Warily, she stepped forward, depositing the GP's kit on the worktop as he moved her laptop aside, his eyes and fingers still trained on it.

"You can keep on working," she told him. "Just do what I say at the same time."

"Fine."

"Right arm, please," she said and he held it out to her, ready for the blood pressure band.

She slid the plasticy material over his hand and up his arm, trying hard not to notice how smooth his skin was, trying not to marvel too much over the tone of his muscles as he moved his hand back to the keyboard.

"Rest your hand, please, or it won't be accurate."

"I can tell you what my blood pressure is without the aid of that useless contraption."

"I'd have to believe you weren't lying." She tugged his wrist away from the keys and he obliged, sighing as she pumped the device up. He sucked in a quick breath at the cold of the stethoscope on his forearm, but his eyes stayed on the screen, even when she had finished and had to move closer to press the bell of the scope against his chest.

She watched his face as she listened to his heart beat. It was strong and fast and she wondered if he could hear hers thumping to the same rhythm.

She wanted to step closer between his legs. She wanted to press herself against him. She wanted to untie the arms of her dressing gown that hid him from her and take his cock in her hands; this time, she would touch it the way a lover would, not like a paid nurse. She wanted to see his face change, his eyes glaze, his lips part at her touch.

Her own lips parted as she imagined it; imagined him lifting her to the worktop, spreading her legs, guiding his cock to her opening, gripping her buttocks so he could thrust...

He turned to look at her and she flushed because he was reading her mind, she knew he was, and so she dropped her eyes to the stethoscope and moved it, searching out the infection on his lungs.

"Are you quite alright, Molly?"

Her fingers shook against his skin because he was still looking at her, his breath light on her hair.

"Fine. Thank you," she said, moving the diaphragm a little to the left.

"John doesn't shake this much when he, uh, looks me over." The last three words were said with such emphasis that she did as they stated, looking down his torso then back up to his face. Which was a mistake.

 _Oh sweet-Merlin..._

He was devastating. His eyes, his lips, the cut of his cheeks. He was...

"Perhaps _you_ require a doctor, Molly? You look flushed. Shaken, even. You're out of breath. Shall I check your pulse?"

"Stop it," she said, stepping away.

"Stop what?"

"You _know_ what." She pulled the ear plugs out and dropped the headpiece around her neck. "It's...it doesn't sound too bad, all things considered. A bit...a bit fast but-"

"No tachycardia. I could have told you that."

"Probably a slight chest infection, worse if you're not careful."

"The pesto will do."

"The pesto is going in the bin."

"Such a waste," he sighed, turning back to the laptop.

"I'm not done with you yet. Here," and she shoved the thermometer into his mouth, pumped the blood pressure monitor once more because she'd missed the readings. She watched him wince at the squeeze of it. _Serves you right._

"Blood pressure's fine," she eventually announced, pulling off the band and reaching for the next piece of equipment.

"I'll just..." She hesitated, fingers hovering at the hair in front of his ear, otoscope in hand. He didn't say anything, didn't help, so she pulled back his curls - went up on her tip toes because even on the stool he was too tall for her - and delicately inserted the nose of the scope. She was quick checking both ears but he still scowled as she returned the implement to its case and picked up the ophthalmoscope. She clicked the light on and shone it into his eyes.

"Is that really necessary?" he asked, trying to grab the implement from her hand, but she was too quick.

 _Slow reactions. Reduced spatial awareness._

 _"_ It won't take long. Sherlock, open your eyes."

He huffed.

"Or I'll make you."

"Try."

She gave him a short, sharp jab in the side with her free hand and he jumped, yelped, the thermometer falling from his mouth to his lap.

She tried to reach for his eyes, to keep them open with her fingers but he jerked further away. "You're a cruel woman," he told her as he tried to evade her.

"And you're a petulant child." She stood back. "Just let me look. I'll be quick."

"My eyes are fine," but he stayed still to let her shine the light into them.

"They're not great, actually. The reaction is a little slow. You _definitely_ have an infection."

"I thought we had already established that."

He was already turning back to the laptop, blinking rapidly to rid his eyes of the light blots. "I picked up some Amoxicillin from Pharmacy."

"You couldn't get anything stronger?" A message had popped up on the screen, long and in...was that another language?

"You don't need anything stronger," she said, trying to sound flippant as she craned to see what he was typing in reply, just five words. Not words she understood. Was it German? He minimised the box before she could guess anything else.

"What lie did you tell for the antibiotics?" He eyed her as he shrugged back into the dressing gown. "Does the whole of Barts think you have a yeast infection?"

"I'll have to do this again," she said, eyeing the dead display on the thermometer.

"Or perhaps an STI?" he ventured, ignoring her as she brandished the stick like a sword. "It wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

"Take the test, Sherlock."

"So it is an STI?" He was smirking, teasing her. "But I don't need to get tested. After all, only in your dreams have _we_ ever..."

"Let me take your fucking temperature, Sherlock."

"No need to get upset, Molly."

"I'm not upset. I just want to take your temperature."

"Do it later."

"No. We'll do it now."

"I'm busy."

"Busy making fun of me."

"Busy chasing up leads on Moriarty in 12 countries and-"

"You don't need your mouth to type."

"And you don't need a thermometer to check my temperature. Or you wouldn't, if you were a proper doctor."

"I'm a pathologist."

"And John's a soldier. Doesn't stop him from-"

"John's a GP. He's trained to treat people who are alive, trained to-"

"That would explain the difference in your bedside manner. Tell me, Molly, did they teach you to be this infuriatingly asinine, or have you always been-"

" _You_ chose me for this, Sherlock. _You._ "

"And I'm already regretting it. Owwm!"

She shoved the thermometer into his mouth with force.

"Fine," she said, walking out of the kitchen. "That's just fine."

"Mowwy." She heard him call around the thermometer. He must have discarded it, because his next words weren't muffled. "Molly, where are you going?"

She didn't look back.

"To get my phone."

"What for? Molly..." It sounded as though he'd stumbled jumping from the stool, yet he was close behind her.

"Molly, what are you doing?"

"Looking for my phone. Have you seen it? I was sure I'd left it..." she was looking under cushions, reaching down the sides of the sofa.

"What do you need it for?"

"Thought I'd ring John. Invite him 'round."

"Why would-"

"You'd much prefer him to me. Might as well fix that now, instead of wasting my time-"

"You're over reacting."

"No. I'm not." She lifted the duvet, seeing it the same time he did. "I'm being realistic." She snatched it up but he snatched it back and her phone was up, over her head in a moment.

"Give it back, Sherlock."

"No," he said, holding it up even higher.

"Give. It. Back."

"Are you going to ring John?"

"Don't you want him, now?"

"Molly," he breathed through his nose, like a teacher trying to stay calm in the face of an unruly pupil. "Do you want John to die?"

"Oh, for goodness sake."

He breathed again. Spoke slowly, levelling each word like a threat.

"Are you going to call John?"

"Of course not. I-"

"I've put my trust in you, Molly. Was that an error of judgement?"

"No, I...I..." he didn't interrupt and for once she wished he would. "Ignore me," she sagged, throwing herself down on the sofa. "I'm just tired."

"You've slept."

"A few hours in more than two days, Sherlock! I'm bollocksed."

"Hungover."

"Still counts."

"Here," he held her phone out. "Your friends have been trying to get in touch."

She took it with a grim smile and scrolled through what she'd missed. Seven calls - a mix of her aunt, Meena and Mike - and four texts she didn't remember being there before, though they'd all been read. One from John read **"Home now."** She clicked on it, hoping there would be more to the simple two-word preview.

There wasn't.

"How long did you speak?"

"With John? Half an hour. Just about."

"Investigating."

"No, he said he went home."

"Look at the time stamps! Four hours and thirty-two minutes between each message." He was itching with energy. "Approximately three hours not spent travelling between your flat and Baker Street. John was investigating."

"He might have gone for a drink or-"

"With whom?"

"I don't know. One of his other friends, or a girlf-"

He scoffed, striding to the mantelpiece, his keen eyes looking through the mirror above.

"Not a girlfriend then, but he's usually dating someone. He might have wanted-"

"He thought there was something wrong, you said. He didn't believe-"

"He did. By the time he left, he believed me."

He turned on her.

"You believe you were so convincing that his doubts fully receded? You believe your acting skills were such that John Watson would _give up_ on me?"

"Yes! No! I mean...Isn't that what you wanted? You want him to believe you're dead. I had to convince him, and Greg, and Mrs Hudson, and-"

"Of course."

"...because if I did all that for nothing; if I broke that man's heart for no reas-"

"Don't be absurd."

"You didn't see him. You weren't the one who had to look him in the eye and...and..."

"Calm down, Molly. You're being ridiculous."

"That's right. I'm ridiculous. I'm annoying, I'm an idiot. I'm absurd, abhorrent, over-reacting...never mind that I'm taking sick leave to take care of you. Never mind that I've lied to everyone just to cover up for you."

"You didn't have to-"

"No. I didn't."

Silence fell. They stared at each other until he couldn't look any longer.

She dropped her head to her hands. Eventually, she heard him move; felt the cushion beside her sink.

When she looked up his eyes were closed, his head resting on the back of the sofa.

"You're tired." He gave one, small nod. "You should be in bed, Sherlock."

"You were in there."

"You had the duvet. And the sofa."

A shrug was all she got in response.

"You're going to fight me for the bed, aren't you?"

"Not strong enough for that."

"Good."

"Give me a day or two."

She smiled. Sighed. "Is this what it's going to be like?"

"What?"

"You. Being here. Is it...will it always be-"

"I hope not. It's tiresome."

"You're not wrong."

"I know."

She leaned her own head back and stared up at the ceiling. The paint was still patchy from when upstairs had a leak. She'd always meant to get someone in.

"I'll ask for more hours at work. Mike's been nagging me to take on an extra PhD student anyway."

He sighed heavily.

"I can take up with a homeless friend or two. One has a squat. Perfectly comfortable if you imbibe enough narcotics, though the lack of WiFi would cause a problem."

" _Now_ who's over reacting?"

He raised his eyebrows, eyes still closed.

"He'll want to speak to me about the post mortem. And about the funeral."

"What makes you think John would value your opinion?"

"Because _you_ do."

He turned then, one eye opening to look at her.

"That statement alone proves how ridiculous this conversation has been."

"I know," she smiled. "Let me take your temperature?"

He reached in the pocket of her dressing gown, pulled out the thermometer, holding it to his lips like a cigarette ready to be lit. "Do what you like. I'll be asleep."

He popped it into his mouth, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.


End file.
